


Could Be King Drabbles

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Series: Could Be King [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cut segments and drabbles from the "Could Be King" universe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter: Grimmons, cw: depression

It was a bad day.

Grif knew it from the moment he woke up that morning, from the throbbing in his skull, to the lethargy in his bones. Before he served, he’d never had trouble with bad days, even with the amount of stress piled on his back day in and day out. But after he’d gotten home, after he’d seen his friends shot, blown up, and bleeding out in front of him, well, he’d become familiar with bad days. 

Simmons made him see a doctor for it and it helped. But bad days were still bad days. Days where his thoughts revolved around “it should have been me.”

“Hey Grif.” Grif was curled up on his bed which he usually did during bad days and he could feel the mattress dip as Simmons sat next to him. A hand quickly tangled in his hair. “Bad day?”

Grif didn’t respond. Simmons seemed to get the point, running his fingers through Grif’s hair soothingly. It was a comforting gesture, something Grif had taken an age to admit liking, and now he was thankful that he did.

“You were worth it,” Simmons whispered. Grif knew what he was talking about at once. Taking the blast, Shielding him. Losing limbs. “If you’d taken it, you would have died.”

Grif curled in upon himself. Talking took effort but he did it anyway. “I’m not good enough.”

“You’re good enough for me.”

A kiss was pressed into his hairline. Tomorrow, when Grif was feeling better, they wouldn’t talk about this, this affection. When they were more than Grif and Simmons. But for now, Grif soaked it up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt:
> 
> A grimmons kiss from the Could Be King 'verse?

Grif hated writer’s block.

He hated it because it was rare. When it came to his stories and novels, words usually came easy, almost without trying, all the hard work saved for the editing process. It was what helped him catapult into the profession, helped him get a firm footing into the industry. No writers block meant no missed deadlines, and in that, Grif had power.

So writer’s block was particularly vexing. Because it decided to fuck with the one thing he decided he was good at.

“Stuck?” Grif’s face was planted into his keyboard. The space bar was making a nice indentation underneath his nose. Grif felt Simmons place something near his forearm, a cup of coffee, and groaned.

“Go away, Simmons.”

“And miss this shit show. Not a chance.” Grif once again found himself contemplating why he lived with this asshole. Why he was friends with this asshole. And why he occasionally slept with him. 

He pulled himself away from that train of thought. Now was not the time for evaluating his life. It was the time for working out plot holes. Terrible, terrible, plot holes. 

“What’s the problem?” Grif could hear Simmons sit down in the chair next to him. Grif sighed. Crumbs rolled into the cracks of his keyboard from the air.

“Plot hole.” There was a pause.

“Okay. Hit me.”

Grif did. Talking out plots was always a great way to solve them, and Simmons had always been a good listener. He followed the plot, Simmons interjecting for clarity once and while, before getting to his current predicament. He could hear Simmons’ good foot tap the floor.

“Well, you could have the guy snag a map from a newbie near the fight scene in chapter 4,” Simmons said, deep in thought. “It’d explain how they found out there were there, and explain why they know where the nearest-”

“Exit route is!” Grif looked up and finished the sentence. He turned to Simmons. “Holy shit, that’s it! Simmons you’re a genius!”

Simmons smiled, smug. “You’re welcom-”

He didn’t finish. Grif reached forward to tug Simmons in for a brief kiss, pressing their lips together. There wasn’t any heat to it, not like their other kisses, and in less than a second he pulled away. They looked at each other dumbstruck for a moment before Simmons cleared his throat.

“You really think I’m a genius?”

Grif rolled his eyes. They were back to normal. “At pissing me off, yeah sure.”

Their bickering continued from there, but if both of them were blushing, neither mentioned it.


	3. Chapter 3

Simmons doesn’t consider his bad days, bad days.

It drives Grif crazy sometimes, how he’s not aware that waking up and calling yourself names isn’t normal. Today is no exception. When Grif walks into the kitchen to find Simmons cursing at himself, a shattered mug on the floor, he can almost spot the self loathing on Simmons face. It’s in the twitch of left eye, in the way his mouth moves just enough to mouth out words. Grif can only guess what he’s thinking. What he’s remembering.

If Grif ever meets Simmons father, he has a detailed plan to show him who of the family was actually worthless. And it wasn’t Simmons. 

Grif walks over to grab a broom, quickly sweeping up the shattered mug. It’s quick work, nothing too harsh, and by the time he finishes, only the coffee on the tile let’s him know what transpired there. Simmons still hasn’t really noticed him yet, lost in his own hate spiral and Grif yanks him by his good arm to guide him to a chair. Once he’s settled, he sits himself down in the one directly across from it. It is only after leaning in that he can hear what Simmons is saying.

“Worthless, can’t even pour a cup of coffee, Jesus-” So that’s the trigger, then. Grif wishes he could just reach forward and shake sense into Simmons like he does with their fights, but he doesn’t this time. Bickering and sarcasm are for light fights. Wounds like this require much more effort. 

For Simmons, Grif will put in all the effort he has. 

“Simmons,” Grif says, reaching over to grab Simmons’ shoulder. The other man doesn’t notice. “Dick.” That gets his attention, and Simmons looks up at him at last. His eyes are a little glassy. “You are not fucking worthless.”

Simmons ducks his gaze and Grif reaches up to grab his chin. Forces this man, his friend, to look at him. “No, listen to me. You are not worthless.” 

“But I-” Simmons eyes dart to the coffee. Grif already is ahead of him.

“You dropped a cup of coffee. Big deal. I do that all the time and I’m not working with a new prosthetic.” Grif hates to bring it up, he hates to even imply that Simmons is different than the rest of them, but in this case, it helps his point. “You wanna call yourself worthless? Try not understanding how to drive a car just because it doesn’t have a gun on it.”

Simmons eyes focus on his face and glare at him. “Sarge is not-”

“Exactly,” Grif says, letting go of his chin. “And neither are you. So forget about thinking otherwise.” He got up out of his chair and headed for the coffee pot. “You still take cream in your coffee?”

Simmons reply isn’t enthusiastic, but it isn’t empty. And for that, Grif is thankful.


	4. Chapter 4

They’re probably going to die doing this.

That’s all Grif can think of as they both put on their uniforms. He knows the statistics of them all making this out in one piece; he’s not dumb. The chances of them even managing to accomplish their goal are less than half, the chances of all of them making it out still breathing are less than a forth. Grif is more likely to be sent home in a body bag than in one piece. 

He wishes he didn’t have to do this. He wishes he could ignore Alpha’s call for their help. But after thinking about what he would to if their places were reversed? About Kai in Epsilon’s place? Well, Grif can’t turn back after that. 

He’s just glad that Kai isn’t coming with them on this one. At least they’ll be someone to bury his sorry ass if everything goes pear shaped. 

Grif turns to Simmons. The man is bent over their shared desk, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. He’s not looking at him, busy on whatever he’s penning down, and Grif takes the moment to look at him. To really look at him. At his red hair flopped over his eyes, his freckled complexion, his glasses that can never stay on his nose. At the man he fell in love with.

If Grif could make Simmons stay with Kai, he would have done so in a heartbeat.

“What you writing?” Grif walks over to Simmons, trying to keep his voice light. Like this isn’t the last night they might ever breathe in the same space. “Writing your last will and testament?” 

He expects Simmons to tell him to fuck off, but instead the man turns, piece of paper in hand. There’s a grin on his face. 

“Something like that.”

“Oh no,” Grif says. No man should be that excited about a will. “Sarge has converted you. You’re looking at this like some sort of Rambo crusade.”

Simmons laughs at that, soft and quiet. It’s not like his usual laughs and Grif commits it to memory. He pushes the paper forward into Grif’s hands. 

Grif looks down at it. The letter isn’t long, less than half the page, and comes more off like something you’d write on a post-it note. He reads it in less than a minute. 

_Dad,_

_You were wrong._

_If I die, don’t give the speech at the funeral. It won’t be accurate. Instead, please leave it to any of the men listed below if still living._

_Go fuck yourself, sir._

_-Richard_

Under his signature is a list of all of their names, Red and Blue. 

Grif lets out a low whistle. Simmons has talked about his asshole of a father before, but he’s never even hinted about standing up to him before. This has to be a first. He looks back up at Simmons.

“Way to give a shoutout to the old man.” He thinks back to the words on the page and decides to take a risk. “What was he wrong about, anyway?”

Grif doesn’t have time to register Simmons pulling his shirt collar forward before he’s kissing him.  

It’s some kiss. Not careful, just plain desperate with emotion, all tongue and teeth. Grif falls into it, yanking him closer, and soon enough, they’ve fallen onto Grif’s cot in a tangle of limbs. When Simmons paws at his uniform, Grif doesn’t even complain about how long it took him to get it on in the first place. When, Grif goes for Simmons pants, well, talking stops there.

They don’t talk after either. There’s no time for it, no time once they hear the knock on the door and scramble to get dressed. The room is left a mess when they leave, Simmons letter now on the floor. Grif promises himself that he’ll make Simmons answer his questions if they make it back.

Two days later, looking at Simmons on life support as the doctors discuss amputating his leg, Grif hates himself for leaving that room at all. 


	5. Chapter 5

Simmons always thought Grif was cute when he was writing.

It was something Simmons picked up on in basic. During their rare downtimes, Grif could be found scribbling away in a notebook, or a scrap of paper when he was desperate. He asked him about it a month after they’d met. Grif has just scowled up at him and huddled his notebook close to his chest.

“I write fiction. And poetry sometimes.” 

Simmons, being the shit he was, had promptly attempted to steal it to get a peak. He hadn’t succeeded, ending up on the floor with Grif sitting on him. But later, when the sun was down, he’d managed to open a page and take a peak. 

Here was the thing about Dexter Grif; while his words were foul, his poetry was absolutely beautiful.

Simmons wondered if that was how he started to fall for him. 

Simmons didn’t read his notebook after that; it felt like a personal invasion. Instead, he started to watch Grif while he was writing. Take in how he mouthed his words under his breath. How his brow crinkled. 

Grif noticed, eventually. And soon enough, Simmons didn’t even have to ask for him to share a new piece.

Simmons watched Grif as he scribbled onto the page. He wondered what he was writing now. When the doctors told him he could be allowed out of his bed, he’d planned on having Lopez wheel him straight to Grif’s room so he could say something important. To fill in the words they never said before. Or to at least say something while he wasn’t pumped full of painkillers.

He’s planned it all out. And now, sitting there as Grif wrote in his notebook, still recovering for burn wounds in his bed, Simmons found himself forgetting the entire thing.

Well, he was Red team. He could improvise. 

“Hey Dex,” Simmons said, voice soft. Grif’s head shot up, and he dropped his notebook onto his lap.

Even though he was too far away to notice, the last word Grif had written down was Simmons’ name. 


	6. Chapter 6

Grif had feeling he’d be getting this call.

He knew it, ever since Simmons said he was visiting his parents, ever since he decided to grace his father with his presence in over a year (since the hospital, where they thought Simmons was going to die and Grif hated the world for it). Grif had tried to talk him out of it, he owed his father nothing, but Simmons had insisted, determined to be present at his younger brother’s wedding. 

“They can’t start anything,” Simmons had said the night before he left. “Jeff won’t allow it. “He won’t let Dad give me shit.”

“I’d still rather go with you,” Grif watched as Simmons put his clothes in his suitcase. Grif had offered to go, claiming the open bar as his purpose, but Simmons was only given one invitation. No room for a plus one. 

(No room on purpose. No room for Simmons to bring a boyfriend or just a friend who sometimes wanted to be one. No room to  _embarrass_  Simmons Sr.)

(God Grif hated Simmons Sr.)

Simmons had looked up from folding a shirt to smirk at him. It caused his freckles to stand out and Grif resisted the urge to kiss him right there. “I’m a war hero, Dex. I can take whatever he wants to throw at me.”

Grif wanted to believe him. But family could be a war of its own. So he wasn’t surprised when his phone rang at 7 at night from one Richard Simmons.

“Simmons?” There was silence over the line. “Simmons? Are you fucking butt dialing me again?”

When Simmons answered, his voice was shaky. “No. Not this time.”

Grif heart, which had always been a little too big for him to bare, ached at the disappointment in Simmons’ voice.  

“ _What. Did. He. Do?_ ” 

Simmons told him. Everything had gone alright at first, his father couldn’t stop bragging about his son’s achievements but soon enough,  things had turned sour. His father kept bringing over random girls. Trying to set him up. And when Simmons had resisted-

“ _I thought the army would have beat the fag out of you_ ,” Simmons whispered over the line, his tone mimicking his fathers. “In front of everyone. Jeff was furious. Told him to get lost, Mom included. I think he might have decked him.” 

“Man.” Grif didn’t know what else to say. “Did he at least get him right in his dumb mouth?”

He hoped that would inspire a chuckle, but instead Simmons made a long sigh. “Didn’t see.” There was a pause. “It would have been fine if he was just a douchebag off the bat. I was ready for that. But when he was talking about me? In front of everyone?” Another sigh. “I thought he was finally proud of me.” 

Grif changed his opinion on Simmons Sr. He did not hate the man; he despised him. He would march to his house and strangle him to death. Punch him in the dick. Let his body rot for the crows and take the stand in front of the judge only to say “it was worth it.”

He couldn’t do that, obviously. Murdering Simmons Dad would likely piss Simmons off no matter how much he deserved it. So Grif focused on the present. On treating the wounds instead of burning the weapon.

“He’s wrong.” Grif’s throat was bone dry. “He’d a fucking idiot because any man should be proud of you.”

Simmons was quiet for a moment. “I just really need to have you here right now, Dex,” he said at last. 

Grif bowed his head and wished his stupid heart could make it so. 


	7. Chapter 7

Barbara Simmons wasn’t stupid; she knew what it meant when the doctors said critical. She knew what “it’s up to him to pull through” now meant. She could tell what her sons labored breaths meant.

He was dying. Her eldest boy was dying. And she’d let him march off to it. 

(Sometimes Barbara Simmons hated herself. But these days? She often found herself hating her husband more.)

There was a boy sitting at Simmons’ bedside, though he didn’t look like he should be out of bed himself. His arms were covered in burns, a long scar running down the left side of his face. Barbara recognized him, he’d been in Simmons photos and the name came to with the way he was looking at her son. 

Simmons hadn’t mentioned anything about a boyfriend overseas. Barbara assumed it was because he didn’t want to mention it to his father. But she could figure out what constant mentions in her son’s letters meant. Even if her son hadn’t realized it yet himself.

“You don’t have to stay, Mr Grif” she said, walking into the doorway. She’d taken a quick trip to the bathroom, after sending the rest of her family to the hotel. They needed rest. She’d hoped her son’s friend would take her advice as well, he had a hospital bed upstairs that he belonged to, but Grif was still in his wheelchair, staring at her son’s face. It was all he’d been doing for the last few hours.

He didn’t look away from Simmons. Didn’t respond to Barbara at all. Instead, his eyes traced Simmons eyes. His mouth. The curve of his nose. Committing him to memory. Barbara could see him drink it in and her heart sank in her chest.

 _Oh._ Oh God. This was no silly fling. This boy was in love. The kind that they wrote about in poems and songs. He loved her son with everything he had. Every organ, every thought, every breathe.

He loved him with everything and he was going to lose him.

Barbara clenched her fists and unclenched them. Instead of walking back to her own chair, she walked over to Grif’s wheelchair. He stiffened slightly as she moved closer, like he was expecting a fight. He didn’t get one; Barbara just put her hand on his shoulder.

Barbara knew she wasn’t the best mother. She loved her son and failed him everyday by tying herself to a man who treated him like dirt. She’d made so many mistakes. 

Her son was probably going to die. There was no time to make up for her past crimes. But she could do what her son would have wanted. Hope for penance in that.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Grif,” she said. “I wish he got a chance to introduce you.”

Grif didn’t look at her. But his head bowed. His shoulders shook. And Barbara saw a small child in his place as he began to sob. 

She walked in front of the chair and wrapped him into a hug. Let this stranger bury his face in her neck like he was one of her own boys. Made soothing motions and he struggled to breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

She didn’t know who she was really talking to. 


End file.
